


I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map

by kohichapeau



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Boys Being Cute, Boys Kissing, Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Slash, Slow Build, boys giggling too because heck, for once indulge in a happier newtmas, no sadness allowed in this fic, thomas sucks at words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kohichapeau/pseuds/kohichapeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shortage of remotely reflective objects in the Glade has Thomas wondering if the boys know the structures of their own face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've written in about a decade, please do let me know what you think! 
> 
> Title is from "Cosmic Love" by Florence + The Machine, my favorite otp song.

With all the shock of his memories quickly fading away in the confines of a dark metal box, the choir of condescending laughter that followed after his release, and the overstimulation of everything occurring all at once with not even a recollection of his own name, it took Thomas some time to relax and give thought to what his face might look like.

He had asked Chuck about it once, actually, not that he should have expected anything graceful about it. The most he got out of his question was how he seemed the age of 16 and most importantly how his face looks about as ugly as-- liver was it? He looked like liver, fried liver on a stick to be exact. Not that he knew what that even meant. It’s fine though, there’s no one to impress when they all look and feel about as beat up as the next person. They’re all in equal grounds, Thomas thinks.

Only except time after time he sees Minho’s run and takes a moment to admire how muscular the boy had to have been to keep up his daily routines. And Newt’s arms are definitely something worthy to take note of at the very least no matter how untimely the situation might be. Everyone in the Glade had something about them that was amazing underneath all the dirt and grime and ragged clothes. But the fact that none of them had ever seen their own face never fails to baffle Thomas-- not necessarily because he wants a peek at his own reflection (he’s not too eager to know what liver looks like on his face) but rather, it’s like he’s got this urge to ask how it’s been like for everyone stuck in the middle of this massive maze for years without knowing how they appear to each other. Does Gally even know how intensely upset his face looks like all the time? It only takes the image of those eyebrows to send Thomas chuckling under his breath. Waving his hand in the air he attempts to forget about Gally’s offended brows and takes a seat on a rock beside him.

For a moment he spares a glance at the sky, then at the nearby boys in the field.  
Everyone’s on equal grounds, huh? Thomas shifts his gaze toward his left shoulder, letting his eyes fall on a glader in the distance, a familiar blond walking across the plains.

An airy breath escapes his lips, accompanied by a single thought creeping in his mind. Somehow his statement doesn’t feel one hundred percent true. 

 

 

\---

 

It doesn’t take even a day of Thomas’s thoughts sitting on the tip of his tongue for him to open his mouth about it to someone else. It was entirely coincidental, of course, that Newt had been the one to approach him just as he was trying to find a more effective distraction than the grass he’d subconsciously been plucking from the ground. He was at their spot again that night--their spot? The log where Newt had been kind enough to give him even the slightest peace of mind after his humiliating first day at the Glade.

“Something stuck on your mind there, Tommy?” Newt skips the greetings altogether and settles beside him, their elbows bumping slightly and the touch of knees reminding Thomas how much closer they’d gotten over the mere days he’s lived with his new--- family.

A poke from Newt sends Thomas out of his trance, an unceremonious “Oh um-- yeah...” escaping his mouth.

Newt smiles at him briefly in amusement and turns to stare straight ahead at nothing in particular. There’s comfort in the silence between the two of them. It’s something Thomas had appreciated from Newt, how patient the boy is, and subtle too. It might be second nature to the boy, being considerate and understanding-- but the thought of doing all that mental work for a group of boys that couldn’t have been less than 40 makes Thomas’s task in the field half as exhausting as it seemed earlier that day. He smiles for a fraction of a second back at Newt, although the blond hadn’t noticed.

“It’s nothing important to worry about.” Thomas supplies, knowing the second-in-command could use an ease of concern.

It earns a playful scoff from Newt who proceeds to shake his head, shadows failing to hide the way the corners of his lips start to tug, “Did I seem worried?”

“Aren’t you always?” Thomas stares at Newt, waiting for a response. Whether that was the right thing to say or not, it was too late now. Newt falls quiet, choosing the starry sky over eye contact, emotions masked by his usual stoic expression.

Thomas couldn’t say if the moon was at the right place tonight but while he had the chance, he took note of the perfect way its light hit Newt’s face, illuminating it with a cool colored glow, contrasting the warmer tones of the blond’s skin. Thomas’s eyes turn to Newt’s fingertips, watching as they slowly rubbed against each other. Somehow that was answer enough. He tries again. “What does liver look like?” Thomas asks, nervousness building in tune with a cold gust of wind.

The moment between them stilled, and Thomas retracts what he said before about comfortable silence.

“Liver...?” It was Newt’s turn to stare, his eyebrows furrowing questioningly. Thomas couldn’t complain though, this was by far preferable to the atmosphere they had working before.

“Chuck,” Thomas begins, “He said I look as ugly as liver.” He shrugs noncommittally. There is no offense to be taken when he doesn’t know what the comparison means. “I don’t know what liver looks like, do you?”

Thomas couldn’t tell whether the initial face Newt makes is of disgust towards liver, an incredulous amusement at the random topic change, or whether he actually sees the validity of Chuck’s words but whatever it was, it had to be a good thing. Because what follows right after is a confused grin that grows into a toothy smile and the hearty laughter that comes bubbling out of Newt’s lungs does something for Thomas-- it’s something uplifting and light and it fills him with an unwarranted amount of relief that he can’t quite put a finger on. And as he watches Newt try and fail to recover from his fits of laughter, Thomas can’t help but stare once more. That seems to be the trend of the day, or maybe it always has been. The way Newt’s shoulders slightly bounce as he laughs, and how both messy and neat those blond locks fall into place, and God if the way he laughs like this could be a drink, he wouldn’t mind choosing it over water.

It was only after Newt’s laugh had died down abruptly when Thomas realized that a sound of awe had already escaped his lips and maybe he realized simultaneously how he’d been fixated a little too hard on his.. companion.

It wasn’t that it felt awkward, but Thomas felt like it was appropriate to opt for staring at the ground at that moment-- like he’d seen a bit too much for tonight. Still, there’s a stubbornness in his gut telling him that an instance like this can’t go to waste and it’s precisely just that that pulls Thomas’s eyes from the ground to stare back at Newt.

“I was thinking about how old I looked so Chuck told me what he saw,” Thomas continues, “And then I started wondering if you guys ever thought about what you might look like… and uh.”

“Alright then, Tommy.” Newt offers a small patient smile and Thomas wonders if he’s doing it on purpose. “What do I look like?”

The whites of Thomas’s eyes become more visible as it widens in surprise. He hadn’t expected this turn of event-- he hadn’t expected much at all, actually. He decides he isn’t too good with these kinds of questions and panic starts to spread slowly from his core-- he wouldn’t even know where to begin. Thomas’s lips part in gallant effort to go and say something-- anything, but all that tumbles out are stutters and incomprehensible sounds.

Newt slides his hand onto Thomas’s knee, effectively capturing his line of sight. “Thomas, you’re going to be okay,” he jokes and the way he uses his accent to make light of the situation is impressive, really. “Tommy, you’ve got that sort of pale complexion to you,” and _oh_ , Thomas catches on quickly what Newt is trying to do. “And I would only assume that’ll change within a month here in the Glade.” Newt’s eyes circle about Thomas’s face, “You’ve got this pinkish tone too, though. You’ve seen those flowers right? The wild ones that grow at the side of that trunk you rest on sometimes. You’ve got those same pinks ‘round your nose and on your cheeks some days..” There’s a slight shift of Newt’s gaze toward something other than Thomas’s face, and he figures out why when the next words were, “and on your lips too.” Newt clears his throat, before continuing. “It’s a pleasant blend, nothing like the liver-ish sort Chuck says.” And then Newt’s eyes resume its travel across Thomas’s skin. Overly self-conscious would be the correct way to put how Thomas feels about all of this, their proximity edging on too close for comfort and the difficulty has been set on high as the hammering inside his rib cage challenge him from focusing on Newt’s words. “And you’ve got these spots, like freckles but they’re not quite dusted-on like Gally’s,” Newt’s eyebrows furrow a second time that night, a confusion painted with more fascination this time around. “They’re more like,” and he laughs to himself “Constellations would be the best word for it, actually. --- There’s a couple just underneath your ears” He pokes at them with a light touch, “And a few on either sides of your cheeks. The one most visible is this one.” Thomas could feel his body freeze a bit as he proceeds to poke at a spot a bit closer to his lips. His hands start to move upward, brushing the hair that drapes over Thomas’s forehead and Newt smiles like he had found a bit of treasure beyond a waterfall. “Ah, and what’d you know-- there’s some hiding here as well!” Thomas has no idea what it is about the things Newt does, but he can feel his nervousness scattering as Newt rests his eyes on his. Promptly, he removes his hand from the brunette locks and resettles back to his previous position, “That wasn’t so bad was it? And I wouldn’t say you’re ugly either.” He pats him on the back and nods with an unreadable expression, his next words pacing faster than its normal tempo, “Anyway, you better get some rest now, Tommy. It’s getting a bit late and I’m sure half the boys have already gotten ready for sleep.”

Thomas supposes this is the easy ticket out. He could nod his head like a good boy and take his leave, have them forget this even happened--Newt wouldn’t mind, it’s not so much of a big deal right? But something about the word “easy” never truly found home in Thomas’s veins. It felt wrong, and especially right now. It was just a matter of how to say what he’s been thinking of, how to put it in a way that Newt could understand-- or that he himself could understand, really. And just the thought of all the things Thomas had yet to comprehend opens new doors to unexplored feelings and emotions and it’s both exciting and terrifying all at once and the routes in which his mind could travel to ask the billions of questions that lay behind Newt’s very simple one-- about this boy sitting across from him...

Thomas wonders if there’s a common word for all the things his mind is running through... but it’s not the time for that to be answered yet-- and the billions of questions he has can wait until he’s answered Newt’s.

He sees Newt motion to stand up, and there’s a rush of adrenaline that takes over Thomas as he grabs his wrist, keeping Newt still. “Um...” and there he goes again, but at least Thomas’s mouth is about as honest as his mind.

Newt waits for him to continue.

“Your uh...” Back when his thoughts generally blanketed over the appearance of the gladers this had all been too easy, but talking about Newt in particular proves to be a more impossible feat as a runner’s job to map an ever changing maze. “Your face-- no, I mean….” He’s not good at this, not an ounce of good even, but Newt’s patient eyes help, and Thomas swears he's long since lost track of the number of times the blond’s small gestures had saved him from his own thoughts. Thomas’s eyes drop to the contact between his hand and Newt’s wrist, reminding himself to give time to breathe. “Our complexion is different. You said I’m pale, and you’re probably right. But you’ve got a warmer skin tone.” And maybe skin tone isn’t the only warm point about Newt, but he decides to push that thought aside for now. Newt sits back down, knowing better than to leave while Thomas had decided to speak.

Thomas lets go of Newt, his hands reaching for the other’s face, stopping mid-way-- “You don’t have freckles.” He squints, trying his best to discern with the poor lighting the night provides. “I don’t see any right now,” and despite how dumb he thinks he sounds, there’s a small laugh that escapes Newt, encouraging him to continue, “--and I like the way you smile.” Thomas stops, not knowing fully well why he had said that. After all, they were supposed to share facts, not opinions. His eyes dart away from Newt, but quickly finds his way back. “It’s really hard to say what it looks like, which is--- you know, kind of the point of this...conversation.” He scratches at his temple. “It’s got this thing to it, like there’s shadows that build at the corners of your lips, and it looks so… believable? I feel like that isn’t even the right word for it. I’m so bad at this,” shaking his head, he worriedly glances at Newt.

“You’re fine, Tommy.” 

So he tries once more, “When you smile, your eyes do this thing where it disappears, and you have lines that go here,” and Thomas gestures his index along the edges of Newt’s eyes, “they make you seem younger, like you’re smiling so hard and your entire face says it.” He was about to continue that momentum with yet another opinion, but catches himself and moves on, “Your neck is long and your jaw line is squared, it helps the authority to your title. And your hair-- is it light brown or blond? It's probably Blond. I can’t tell most of the time, but it’s a recognizable color. Then your nose--” and he pauses to wonder what he even meant to continue with, “-- To be honest, I don’t even remember what I wanted to say about it.” There’s giggling from the both of them this time. It’s getting late and if Thomas is being hopeful, perhaps the night has largely to do with his impulses.

The truth is, he remembered very shortly after what he had to say about Newt’s nose. The way it served as a measuring unit on exactly how far Newt’s amusement went. The way his hair looks both wild and tamed. How the darkness of his eyes gives off a reflection of something much deeper than he could even know… There’s so many contrasting ways in which he sees Newt and if he tried to spill his thoughts about everything, it would be endless.

It hadn’t been a week since he’d arrived, and everyone would just have to excuse his lack of orientation. But even without knowing how to articulate the words out loud, Thomas gets the feeling that the thoughts he harbors towards this boy holds something unique amongst the others. Like, he’d already given thought of them before, somehow. The smile, the laugh, his hair, the little habits Newt must have retained from even before losing his memories. All of it seems too familiar, but no matter how hard he focuses it all falls into dust.

And so, rather than spending the words and syllables reaching for an answer, Thomas’s left hand, hesitant in the way he pauses twice making sure the blond was comfortable with whatever he might do-- finds its way running through Newt’s hair, slow and thoughtful, like he’s trying to memorize and collect information. And as his thumb rubs slightly over Newt’s scalp, the blond visibly relaxes. It’s curious, the way Newt allows Thomas to do all these stupid little things. He notices blond eyelashes fluttering as it lowers, and in that moment Thomas was sure he wasn’t the only one reaching.

 

They were like that for just a little while-- but when Newt finally opens his eyes, Thomas couldn’t help but break the silence, “Don’t laugh at me but… I’ve got this feeling I’ve met someone like you before...” Thomas retracts his hand slowly, letting his palm slide over the contours of Newt’s cheeks. His hand decidedly rests on the ground between the two of their bodies, just centimeters away from Newt’s. “It’s just a feeling though. And it’s probably nothing.” He shrugs just a bit, appearing more casual despite the new heaviness in the air.

“A feeling couldn’t possibly be nothing.” Newt says, and Thomas can’t really tell if those words were more than just a reply, but soon enough he feels Newt’s hand on his.

For once the world actually feels calm. There's no feeling of expectancy coming from the blond, no feeling of something overbearing that Thomas would be pressured to return-- there's just a sense of permission, understanding, patience, and care and when Thomas puts it this way, there’s no reason why he wouldn’t squeeze Newt’s hand, allowing their warmth to mingle.

He observes as Newt uses his free index to timidly rub at his bottom lip, a habit Thomas makes sure to take note of. “S’ppose this is the time when one of us says something even more sappy or casual. To, you know, effectively ruin how confusing this mood is.” Thomas laughs, relief being the reason more than anything because finally it wasn’t just him feeling all levels of perplexed.

“What would you say if I told you... You already ruined it?” Thomas gives Newt a comically deadpan look, which only succeeds in earning him a rough shove, their fingers never inching away from each other.

His memories don’t go far back enough for comparison, but a part of him is sure-- that this bit of present-tense, soon to become past, is certainly his favorite. But just to seal the moment, give it a sense of finality and closure-- and to finally express the things he’s wanted to say even without the diction to back it up, Thomas leans closer to Newt-- and _oh_ , he can’t believe he’d forgotten… how funny it was that Newt had mentioned those wildflowers before. It was hilarious because he’d been thinking the same thing but unlike Newt, Thomas doesn’t look away from the blond’s lips-- in fact he prolongs his stare, waiting to see if Newt would withdraw. He doesn’t, of course, and Thomas takes that as another sign of permission.  
It wasn’t obvious to either of them, but there was a small smile on both of their faces as their lips brushed, followed by just enough pressure from both sides to clarify the emotions of their moment.

Before the sun could get a chance to come up and push them back into the usual routine-- and before the blond could drag Thomas off the grass to get some rest for the long day to come, Newt smiles once more, his face lighting up despite the darkness. And God, that meant Thomas had done something good. He’d give himself a mental pat on the back but it catches him by surprise when Newt moves forward about a couple inches, closing the distance it took to recapture Thomas’s lips. There’s a mix of both defiance and satisfaction this time as the blond pulls away, and Thomas swears his heart was beating so loud it could drown out the rumblings of the Maze.

“Some days your cheeks have that color,” Newt points at Thomas for a brief second. “I didn’t realize it would be apparent at night too.”

Thomas reflexively slaps his own face, hiding colors he can’t see. He can tell Newt wasn’t lying as he feels an unfamiliar heat crawl underneath his hands. Both of them roar with laughter for the last time that night, and the thought of how well he interacted with Newt feels like the calm in the middle of a storm. There's a promise there, that the two of them could pull through any obstacles they face-- together. And all Thomas hopes for is that the moments they share could be lengthened just a bit more until that time could come.

 

At least for tonight, it would seem Thomas’s hope was fulfilled.

 

 

In fact, they were so caught up in their moment, they hadn’t realized the small whooping coming from the Homestead. That was fine though, they were sure to find out later.


End file.
